Don Gutteridge - Bloody Relations

“Who was the victim?” he said to Madame Renée.

“Sarah McConkey. She was one of my four girls. You’ve met Molly-”

“Molly Mason, I am.”

“And over there is Carrie Garnet and Frieda Smiley. We work in this part of the house and live together in the adjoining section.”

“Was it you, ma’am, who found Sarah like that?”

“It was Molly and me together. We were all asleep in our rooms over there-Molly was sleeping with me and Frieda and Carrie right next-”

“You left Sarah alone with a. . customer?”

“He seemed so harmless,” Madame Renée said, and faltered.

“It weren’t your fault, Mum,” Molly said, reaching across and giving her mistress a pat on the forearm.

“What I need to know more’n anythin’ else is exactly what you saw when you opened the curtains and looked in there.”

“Molly and I were asleep when Molly woke up saying she heard someone yell.”

“It was a sort of shriek,” Molly said with a shudder, recalling it.

“Sarah?”

“I’m sure it was the gentleman.”

“Anyway, we both ran in here and then into the east bedroom,” Madame Renée continued. “We were both standing in the doorway, struck dumb.”

“The candle beside the bed was almost burned down, but we could still see, couldn’t we, Mum?”

“I saw the blood, everywhere. I saw the wound in Sarah’s neck. I knew she was dead. And that man, that horrid little man was snoring away-still drunk.”

“Then he must have cried out in his sleep,” Cobb said. “Sarah must’ve been stabbed long before that noise woke you up. It’d take some time fer all of that blood to drain outta her.”

Frieda and Carrie, both very young and very frightened, emitted a joint cry of anguish. Cobb turned and apologized, “Sorry to be so blunt.”

“Yes, I knew she was already dead. And I couldn’t bring myself to walk through her blood, I-”

“Now, don’t go upsettin’ yerself so,” Cobb said. “It’s the man I want to know about.”

“He had Sarah’s knife in his hand!” Molly said.

“ Sarah’s knife?”

“She kept that little dagger under her pillow whenever she had a caller-”

“You warned her about it, didn’t you, Mum?”

Madame Renée looked at Molly with a sad, grateful nod. Her eyes were full of tears. “But Sarah was a strong-willed girl,” she said to Cobb.

“So you both saw the knife in his right hand, just as I did?”

“Yes, we did.”

Well, that more or less clinched it. Cobb congratulated himself. Nevertheless, he felt obliged, despite the discomfiture of feminine tears and the near nakedness of the women he was questioning, to establish a chronology of events before waking the murderer and making any accusations. Piece by piece, with help from both Madame Renée and her three charges, they painted a vivid picture of what had happened before the discovery of the body. Because the brothel drew its clientele from among the prosperous and respectable in the community-merchants, bankers, councillors, army officers, and the like, if Madame were to be believed-the governor’s ball had robbed them of a good night’s take. Only three of their regulars had visited, elderly gentlemen too decrepit or senile to attend the gala at Spadina. Cobb was fascinated by the complex workings of a fancy brothel in the midst of a shantytown. Each of the regular callers, it seemed, had a nickname (Madame professing not to have the slightest notion of who they really were). Her trackers scouted the verges of Lot Street and, when a regular showed up, they escorted him safely to the red door. The caller would then use the brass knocker to rap out a prearranged code (frequently changed). The tracker lads had a different knock if they merely wanted to convey messages or otherwise be admitted. The parlour door, heavily barred, was the only way into the working section of the house. The windows were all high, small, and either shuttered or screened. None of the screens showed any signs of forced entry. One other door at the far west side of the house, with its own sturdy bar, led into the living quarters of the women.

About one o’clock, realizing that no one else was likely to arrive this night, Madame had sent Peter and Donald home, barred the red door, and prepared to close up shop. They had just finished a cup of tea and were walking towards their own quarters when they heard a discreet rap-of one of the regulars. They waited. The knock was repeated. Madame unbarred the door and eased it open. A pale young man, heavily cloaked, stumbled in as if he had been pushed. He was a stranger. Puzzled, for the knock had been legitimate, Madame stepped out in time to see the back of a man in a purple or black cape and top hat moving quickly into the darkness. She concluded that one of her regulars-who knew his way in without assistance-had brought along a friend, though it was curious that he himself had not stayed to introduce him. When Cobb queried Madame as to why she didn’t simply toss the intruder back into the murk outside, she sighed and said that he was very young, unthreatening, and exceedingly drunk. He also waved a wad of pound notes at her, ogled the girls, and gave them all such a boyish, helpless sort of grin that they took pity on him. And none of them, it was clear, would ever forgive themselves for doing so.

Because Sarah McConkey was the only one of the girls not to have entertained a client that evening, she inherited the task of divesting the young gentleman (whom she dubbed Jocko, which seemed to amuse him) of his clothes and enticing him into bed. Madame insisted that she had remained awake in her room for half an hour or so, until she heard Jocko’s drunken snores. Then she peeked in and found both of them sound asleep. She returned to her own room and lay down beside Molly. The rest he now knew.

Cobb stood up and thanked Madame. He was sure he heard footsteps approaching. It would be Dr. Angus Withers to confirm his own findings or Chief Constable Sturges to congratulate him and take the accused into custody. But before he could unbar the door, he was startled by a sound behind him and a collective gasp from the women. He swivelled around. There in the opening to the little hallway-naked, detumescent, blood-smeared, and plainly horrified-stood the murderer.

Dr. Angus Withers, physician to the well-heeled and the self-important but a kindly gentleman himself, was in Sarah’s cubicle examining the body. The man presumed responsible for its condition was seated on the edge of a hard chair near the stove, which was throwing off more heat than anybody but the killer required. The moment he had appeared in the parlour, Cobb-offended by the man’s nakedness and spooked by the wild look in his eye-had moved decisively. Calling for a blanket to cover the wretched creature’s shame, Cobb had thrown both arms around him and half-dragged him to one of the armchairs. Amid the initial shrieks of the three girls, Madame Renée was a pillar of steely determination. Whatever revulsion she may have felt for the man who had slaughtered Sarah, she kept it under control, chivvying her young charges back into their quarters and returning with another dressing gown. She tossed it at Cobb, and he wrapped it around the shivering form before him.

Cobb had waited in vain for the man to calm down, hoping to question him and even drawing out the notebook he carried to jot down items he might fail to remember. His memory, however, was usually quicker and more reliable than his handwriting, so he was content to carry information in his head and, when he returned to the station, to dictate it to Augustus French, the police clerk. But the only word the trembling fellow had uttered in the past fifteen minutes was something resembling “awful,” and even that was garbled and hesitant. Madame Renée sat a few feet away, staring at him. Cobb could sense that she too was on the verge of crumbling. Dr. Withers had suggested sedatives all ’round, but Cobb had waved him to the victim’s room.